


The Chain

by 221brosiewilde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canonical Character Death, Fist Fights, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, Sebastian Moran thinks he could have loved John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was meant to be a quick birthday fic for the lovely [Jana](http://www.moranmoriarty.tumblr.com/). Unfortunately, it quickly took on a life of its own and became the monstrosity you see here that I hope you enjoy!  
> As always, I'd like to give all the love to [Sarah](http://www.girlwith1oneeye.tumblr.com/) who lovingly beta'd this for me.

_I'll never say_   
_That I'll never love_   
_But I don't say a lot of things_   
_And you, my love, are gone_   
_-The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson_

Sophie is watching Sebastian scan the bar. In less than a minute he knows she’s going to sigh impatiently, or drum her fingers on the table, and tell him to hurry up. Play the game, or get the fuck out.

“Sebastian,” she says. Her tone is hard. Other girls always seem to think it’s fun to whine his name, but he’s still getting used to the fact that Sophie is not like them. Her accent smacks of Greece and cuts the syllables deliciously. If he’d had maybe one more pint he’d be smiling at the sound, or least he’d be trying to. “I don’t have all night. Pick someone.”

“Give me a minute,” he says. He’s wearing a smirk he doesn’t feel and he takes another sip from his glass to buy some time. Sophie knows a stalling tactic when she sees one though, and she sighs. There might be something akin to pity in her eyes, but it’s gone before he can classify it as such. _It’s Sophie_ , he tells himself. And he knows for a fact that Sophie will never show him any pity.

It’s why he likes her.

“If you’re going to be so slow, I’ll just find someone myself,” she says, tapping one blood red painted nail on the worn wood of the table. “I don’t need you to pick for me.”

“I know. But I can’t send my best girl home with just anybody,” Sebastian says, his eyes on the group of tired looking business men sitting at the bar. His eyes light on the most handsome of the lot. He’s brown eyed, tan, and clean shaven. He’s young, though his hair has that attractive premature grey already seeping in around the temples. Probably overworked then, under a lot of stress. Sebastian shifts, trying to get a better look. The man stands and when he reaches towards the bartender to pay his bill Sebastian can see he’s unmarried, left handed, and there’s the faint outline of rope burn shows raw around his wrist. His posture screams desk job, and though he’s had a few pints in the hour that he’s been here, his are steady and strong.

Sebastian grins.

“I’m not your girl,” Sophie protests, sneering in the way that Sebastian has come to learn means she’s secretly pleased with something he’s said. Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything about the one night she had been his girl.

“Maybe not, but tonight I think I know whose you are,” Sebastian says, nodding towards Premature Grey Office Worker. Sophie slides her gaze over, and gives Sebastian’s pick a once over.

“Him?”

“Him.” Sebastian nods. He drains his glass, and waits for Sophie to pass judgment. Fortunately by now he knows her type, though he has to admit that this one might be pushing it a bit.

“Why?” she asks finally. Her tone doesn’t give anything away and Sebastian puts his glass down. He frowns.

“What do you mean why?” They’ve never given each other reasons for their choices before. The challenge was figuring out what it was about the person that made them get picked.

“I mean why.” Sophie leans back in her chair and raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s been a while. How am I to know you haven’t lost your touch?”

Another kind of challenge, then. _That_ he could get behind.

“Look,” he says, flicking his gaze over to the man again. “Not married, which is a plus. He’s got slouched shoulders, so you know he’s sitting at a desk all day. Those types are always dying for a bit of fun, anything to get the office out of their head. And a bloke out at the pub with his friends on a Friday night isn’t going to turn down a quick shag. It’s probably what he’s here for in the first place.” He looks at Sophie, and she cocks her head to the side.

“I’m going to need a better reason than ‘he won’t turn me down,’” she says, which Sebastian has to admit is a fair point. It’s a good thing he has more to go on than that.

“His wrists,” he says, smirking when Sophie steals another quick glance. He can pinpoint the exact moment she sees what he’s talking about - her smile is blinding.

“I can work with that.”

“I know how much you like your bondage, darling,” Sebastian says, and Sophie shrugs, a planning glint already in her eye. He looks at the man again. “And those legs scream martial arts training. I’m thinking jiu jitsu.”

Sophie hums. “Brazilian jiu jitsu probably. I trained for a while. It’s all about seeing how long you can hold someone down with just your thighs.” She smirks, and takes another sip of her pint.

Sebastian leans back and exhales. “Alright. Your turn. Hit me.”

Sophie looks away from her challenge. Sebastian has seen her look surprised exactly twice in his life. And both times had been during missions they were lucky to get out of alive. The fact that she looks the same way now doesn’t help.

“Hit you with what?” she asks.

“A pick. You know, a person.” He shrugs. “That’s the game, right? I pick someone for you to pull and you pick someone for me. If you win you go home with them, and if you don’t, you have to buy the first round next time. Or have you changed the rules since we last played?”

“No, they’re still the same,” Sophie says, blinking the surprise off of her face. “I just didn’t think you wanted anyone.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sophie manages to keep any emotion off of her face, and Sebastian mentally commends her for it. He knows about the rumors circulating London’s criminal underground, how it’s become a cesspool of false information and fantastical ideas, some even bordering on the supernatural. But he never expected Sophie to buy into any of them.

Not that it would take much to guess the truth. She knows him better than anyone.

She sighs, and Sebastian knows what’s coming before she speaks. “Look, I don’t want to talk to you about this unless I’m very drunk, Sebastian, but I’m no common idiot. I don’t see you in almost three years and then suddenly you decide to call me up for drinks? Please.” She rolls her eyes and leans forward, lowering her voice.

“I know about Moriarty.”

The words don’t come as a surprise, but hearing the name spoken aloud for the first time since he’d stopped watching news coverage of Holmes’s suicide - and by extension, Jim’s - is jarring. And oddly grounding. He’d almost started to think that none of it had been real.

“What do you know, Sophie?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you actually believe everything you hear.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, especially to Sophie, who’s never been aything but honest and rational, or at least as honest as an assassin can be.

“I do _not_ believe everything I hear and you know that for a fact,” she hisses, eyes flashing, the green color like molten emerald. “But yes, I’ve heard the rumors. It’s impossible not to. Everything is a mess since Moriarty offed himself. Territories are being handed over to the wrong people, contracts are being bid on, money’s not being handed out the way it used to be. It’s a fucking free for all. Either there’s too much work or not enough-”

“And what would you like me to do about it?” Sebastian asks, gesturing to the bartender for another round. He’ll need it if this is the route their conversation is going to take.

“You were his second in command and personal toy soldier for three years. Don’t try to deny it, I know it’s true,” she says quickly when Sebastian opens his mouth to protest. “I’m not saying you have to do something but I know that you can. The fact that you haven’t already is what has me worried.”

At that, Sebastian can’t help but laugh. Sophie never worried about him. She never worried about anyone. She’d made that clear during their first job together when she’d sold him out to the organisation they were supposed to be infiltrating.

“I’m serious,” she insists, hushing her voice and leaning even closer. She tips his head up, forcing him to meet her eyes. The sudden touch takes Sebastian out of his thoughts. Even after years of dancing around each other, a few scattered nights of drunken sex, and then no contact during his years with Jim, her touch still feels like electricity.

“It’s been six months,” she says, jarring him out of his thoughts. “I don’t know what you meant to him outside of work, and I don’t care. But I know you’re not the same person you were three years ago.”

She pauses, her eyes searching his face. Sebastian’s jaw is tense, but he keeps her gaze. She’s right. There’s no point in denying it now, not when she has him pinned so accurately. Even he knows that he’s not the same person he’d been years ago, when they were taking contracts together and trying to get into each other’s pants. The mirror doesn’t show that face anymore.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asks. “Fix everything he left behind? It’s not that simple.”

“No,” Sophie says, smiling reluctantly. “But if there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you. You’re practically in charge now anyway. _Second Most Dangerous Man in London_ and all that nonsense. Besides, you need something to distract you from sulking.”

Sebastian looks down at the table. It wasn’t so much sulking as a bone deep grief, a permeating sorrow he just can’t shake.

Fortunately, he knows that Sophie would rather hang herself than hear about it.

“How do you know I’ve been sulking?” he asks, playing along.

She scoffs. “Please. You look like shit. I don’t want to pick anyone for you because it’d be like playing against a homeless person. No competition.”

Sebastian cringes. “It’s not that bad.”

Sophie looks at him from over the rim of her glass. “You’ve looked better.”

That was true. But no sleep and copious amounts of alcohol would do that to a person.

“Just pick someone and stop fucking around.”

“You sure? We could always call this off,” Sophie says, avoiding his eyes. She’s giving him an out. Sebastian can see it for the act of mercy it is, and his stomach twists. Merciless Sophie was showing him pity.

“Yes, come on,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Sophie shrugs and looks around the bar. “Suit yourself,” she says, drumming her fingers on the table. The door to the pub opens, bringing in a short blast of cold air with it, and a man walks in alone. His sandy hair is covered in a light dusting of snow, evidence of the weather outside, and his face looks like he’d been in the sun for a long time a few years ago. His posture is erect, the kind of spine snapping straightness one can only get from the army, though there’s an interesting stutter in his step, and he’s not particularly tall. He looks sturdy, and Sebastian has to quell the urge to go up to him, and shove him as hard as possible, just to see if he’ll move.

John Watson.

Recognition hits Sebastian hard, and he stares. John Watson who he’d personally abducted and wrapped in semtex. John Watson who’s never seen his face. John Watson whose detective is dead. John Watson who Jim had said held Sherlock Holmes’s heart in his chest along with his own.

“Him,” Sebastian says, just as Sophie’s about to open her mouth. She closes it with an audible click and raises an eyebrow.

“Him?” she asks, huffing out a short laugh. “Really? He looks a bit…”

“Perfect.”

“Stunted,” Sophie finishes, her eyebrows disappearing into her dark hair when she hears his answer. “Perfect? Really?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, draining the rest of his pint. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few notes, slamming them on the table. He moves to get up but Sophie has his wrist pinned before he can leave.

“What?”

She’s looking at him the way his mother had when he’d told her he was going to enlist after her death, and the expression weighs heavily enough in his mind to give him pause.

“I know who he is,” she says, tightening her grip. He can feel his bones grind together under her hand, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I won’t,” he says quietly, holding her gaze until she lets go. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Goodbye, Sebastian,” Sophie says. Sebastian walks over to the bar, and when he looks back, she’s already stalking towards her pick with wildcat grace.

Sebastian sits down at the bar, leaving one stool between himself and John Watson. A rugby match between the RAF and one of Oxford’s teams is playing on the mounted television and Oxford is up by a hair. It brings Sebastian back to his days at the university, the feeling of raw competition singing through his veins. He looks at the men on the screen, all muscular and young, unscarred and too attractive for their own good. A part of him can’t believe he ever was one of them.

RAF goes in for a try and scores, and John Watson makes a disappointed noise. Sebastian risks a glance and clears his throat, seeing his chance.

“Well that was just lazy,” he says, keeping his gaze on the television. John Watson glances in his direction and hums his approval, but doesn’t say anything else. Sebastian takes it as his cue to keep talking. “I mean Oxford’s got good defense so that was just stupid. It was clear he was going to pass. Their flanker was right there. Although it is late in the game. I suppose they could just be getting tired. What do you think?” He asks, and looks at John Watson, letting his gaze bore into him. Sebastian takes the chance to study him, empathizing with the dark circles under his eyes, and the day and a half’s worth of stubble on his face.

John Watson tolerates the stare for exactly twenty one seconds before turning to Sebastian, a little too quickly, a little too violent, eager.

“Sorry, are you talking to me?” he asks, though there’s no real apology in his tone. Sebastian shifts his grin into something nicer, the charming one that always seems to put people at ease.

“You’re the only one at the bar.”

“So I am.”

“Then yes, I’m talking to you,” Sebastian says. He moves one stool over and looks John Watson in the eye before holding out his hand. “Sebastian Moran.”

It’s daring. No one knows his name. Jim had made sure of that in the beginning of their partnership. Saying it aloud now to someone he should rightfully consider an enemy is no small thrill. It sits in the air like the first gunshot of a rebellion.

John stares at his hand before taking it. His grip is firm, and for the first time in six months Sebastian feels a slow burn start to work its way under his skin, warming him.

“John Watson,” he says.

“John Watson,” Sebastian rolls the name around in his mouth. His charming grin goes feral. “Can I buy you a drink?”

-

John Watson is…

The thing about John Watson is…

“Soldier,” Sebastian says to him once the match is over, though they’d barely paid any attention to the last half. Sebastian can’t even remember who won, and whether that’s a reflection on how much he’s had to drink in the past hour, or how surprisingly good John’s company is, he can’t be sure.

Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Good guess,” John says, nodding once. “How’d you know?”

Sebastian shrugs. “We always know our own, don’t we?”

John matches his smile, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appeared.  

“That was going to be my next guess, too,” John says.

Sebastian laughs. “So I’m right, then?”

“Afraid so.”

Sebastian motions to John’s glass. “You know the rules. Drink.”

John rolls his eyes good naturedly and takes his drink. He puts the glass back down onto the bar with a little too much force, and for the first time Sebastian wonders if he’s drunker than he’s letting on. Secretive. Interesting.

“God, I don’t think I’ve played an actual drinking game since I was in school,” John says, blinking as if the realization is hitting him as the words leave his mouth.

“No?” Sebastian asks, and he’s starting to think that asking John questions to learn more about him is starting to stem more from genuine interest than any ulterior motive he might have had originally.

“No,” John says. He shrugs. “I didn’t have time for it during med school, and then after that I went straight to Afghanistan, so.” He looks up from his glass and flashes one of those fleeting smiles, his eyes far away.

“And then after Afghanistan?” Sebastian probes, even if the question is a little too risky. He can’t help himself. John’s story is starting to sound a little too much like his own, and the idea that they’re so similar, that Sherlock and Jim had been so similar, is starting to make him uneasy.

John’s eyes, grey, Sebastian notices for the first time, like rocks on the shore, focus on him again, suddenly wary. “Anyone who’s seen a television in the past six months knows that.”

“I’ve been without,” Sebastian says, and it’s not a lie. He can’t bear to hear people with wrong information talk about Jim. He can’t bear to see the pictures of Richard Brook.

“You have no idea who I am?” John asks, still skeptical. Sebastian doesn’t blame him. He’d be skeptical too if his friend’s (lover’s?) death had been plastered all over the news and someone claimed that they’d never heard about it.

But then again, he’s been claiming not to know anything about Jim Moriarty for longer than John would even believe.

“Well obviously I have some idea,” Sebastian says. “Your name is John Watson. You’re a doctor. You were a soldier. And now you’re here playing a stupid drinking game with me.” He leans away a little bit. “Do I need to know anything else?”

John studies him for a moment, and the wariness seems to recede. His shore rock eyes don’t lose any of their density though, and for that, Sebastian respects him all the more.

“No,” John says finally. He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

-

The next day, Sebastian wakes up with one of the first hangovers he’s had in a while. His head pounds like something is trying to force its way out from behind his eyeballs, and his stomach is noticeably empty which means that he definitely vomited before he fell asleep. A quick sweep of the room is enough to show that he’d made it to the toilet at least, which is a small blessing, though the happiness that thought brings him is immediately drowned out when he sits up.

“Gahh,” he groans, grimacing at the stale taste of sick in his mouth.

“Oh good,” Sophie says, daintily perched on the window ledge. “You’re up.”

Sebastian jumps at the sound of her voice and barely manages to stop himself from reaching for the gun under the couch. He settles for a glare instead and runs a hand through his hair, pressing the heel of his palm over his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“You’re not going to ask how I got in?” she asks, and her smile when Sebastian looks up, shooting daggers with his eyes, is beatific. “How I infiltrated Moriarty Headquarters? You really are slipping.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes and forces himself to get up. He walks over to the kitchen, turning the kettle on automatically.

“You’re an assassin,” he says flatly. “It’s your job to figure out how to get into places you shouldn’t.”

“And isn’t it your job to stop people like me from getting into places like this?” She counters, raising an eyebrow. Sebastian raises an empty mug to her.

“Touche.”

“Sebastian-”

“Why are you here?” he asks again.

Sophie frowns, and leans against the counter. “I didn’t want you to get hungover and forget about what we talked about last night. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Of course I remember,” Sebastian says, turning back around to make his tea. “You’re worried I don’t have my act together, that I’m drinking too much, that crime is going to go to shit because Jim is out of the picture.”

“I never said I was worried about you,” Sophie starts, and then stops, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Who the fuck is Jim?”

The smirk leaves Sebastian’s face. No one was on a first name basis with Moriarty. “Nevermind.” He turns around and Sophie is giving him a look that might be sympathetic on someone else. On her it just looks pained.

Something that feels like shame coils in Sebastian’s stomach and he stares into his mug.

“I did tell you not to get in over your head,” she says. Between the hangover and the ever-present Jim shaped hole in his chest, it’s the last thing he needs right now. He takes a sip of his tea, relishing the way the steam burns his tongue.

Before he’d gone to live with Jim and became an expert in how psychopaths worked, Sophie’s personal brand of tough love would have already turned into a screaming match, and at least one of them would be sporting a split lip. Now Sebastian counts to ten and holds the burning liquid in his mouth until he’s afraid that it’ll do permanent damage. He swallows and tries not to picture Jim standing where Sophie is, smirking and doing his best to bait him into an argument.

“What do you want, Sophie?” he asks, fighting disappointment when he’s met with green eyes instead of brown, doing their best not to look unnerved.

“I want you to get things back on track,” she says, her eyes flicking away from his for a moment.

She sounds uncertain. “I’ll even help you if you want, but this can’t go on, Sebastian. You need to fix this. You need to fix yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Sebastian says immediately, ignoring the way his mouth is still tingling. “I’ll contact you within the week with something if you want. I’m sure I’ll need a bit of help.”

“Yeah. I think you will,” Sophie says. Sebastian nods and tries for a smile. The pained look on Sophie’s face doesn’t change, and instead of teasing him or smiling back, she crosses the space between them and kisses him on the cheek. Her fingers stay on the back of his neck for a second too long.

“What is it?” Sebastian asks.

Sophie shakes her head. “I have an assignment in Turkey. I’ll be gone for a while.”

“And?”

She sighs. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” she says. And then she’s gone.

When Sebastian moves again it’s because his phone signals that he has a text. He walks over and has to dig into the cushions for a moment before finding it. It’s just another hazard of relocating to the couch, but it’s better than waking up to a cold half of the bed.

**Just making sure you got home okay. JW**

Sebastian stares at the text in surprise, and tries to recall giving John his number. No one was supposed to have this number unless they were connected to Jim somehow, and even then it was hard to get. The fact that he’d willingly given it to John Watson last night is enough to startle a huff of amusement out of him.

**I’m fine. You?**

He taps the words out, used to messages needing a prompt response, and finds himself actually interested in what John Watson will say. That’s new. But he figures that if John had been interesting enough to him while drunk, then he couldn’t be half bad sober.

**I’m fine too. Hungover as hell though. Do you remember anything from last night? JW**

**I don’t remember a thing.**

**Neither do I. JW**

Sebastian pauses, and watches as the three dots that mean John is typing out another message appear on his screen. They stop, and then finally disappear. Disappointment hits Sebastian, and he frowns, tapping his screen thoughtfully for a moment. It’s comforting to know that John isn’t the only one who doesn’t know how to go about making new friends. The thought gives him courage and he types quickly, hitting send before he can think better of it.

**Wanna do it again?**

-

The pub is quieter that night. The happy hour fiends are out doing the things happy hour fiends do on weekends, which just leaves the local alcoholics, the bartender, and Sebastian and John Watson.

Not that the two of them are any better, really, Sebastian thinks as he sits next to John, who, despite his obvious hangover, looks better than the last time Sebastian had seen him. His face is flushed, either from the cold outside or the half pint he’s obviously had before Sebastian arrived. His eyes are the same color, and he smiles at Sebastian when he sees him. It isn’t a reaction Sebastian’s used to from anyone except for Jim. And, well…

Well.

“You’re late,” John says by way of greeting, though his tone is cheerful enough. Sebastian tries a smile for what feels like the fifth time today, and thinks he gets it right this time because John returns it easily.

“Yeah, sorry. Got caught up with a few things. Work doesn’t always end when the shift is over,” he says and sits down on the stool next to John.

“I know the feeling. It’s why I don’t do hospital work anymore,” John says. “What do you do that’s so hectic?”

“Security,” Sebastian answers, keeping it simple. “No hospital work, really? I thought you’d like that, being an army doctor and all.”

John shrugs. “My personal life was exciting enough without it until recently.” He doesn’t shift nervously the way Sebastian had thought he might at the indirect reference to Sherlock, and that’s...interesting.

But not reacting the way normal people react to trauma is something he’s more than familiar with.

“Was it?’ Sebastian asks, raising an eyebrow. “The army was exciting enough for you then?”

“You know that’s not it,” John says, something like understanding in his eyes. For a moment Sebastian wonders if John somehow knows who he is, that maybe Mycroft Holmes had gotten wind of their meeting and informed him. But then John speaks again and his second of panic disappears. “You never really stop wanting the excitement, do you? You just end up looking for it in other places.”

“Did you find it?”

“What, excitement?” John asks, and Sebastian nods, watches as a familiar expression mars John’s features. Seeing it on someone else makes it almost immediately identifiable.

Bitterness.  

“I found it, but... It never lasts. It ends and you’re back where you started.”

John turns away for a moment to order them another round, and Sebastian sees the actions for what it really is; a chance to not have to talk for a bit. They’ve been skirting the edges of Sherlock (and to an extent, Jim) all night, and Sebastian’s starting to think about taking the direct approach.

“So what was your new excitement?”

“What do you mean?”

“After the army you started working at clinics. That’s not very interesting. And you said your personal life was exciting enough that you didn’t need any at work. What was it?”

John licks his lips, a nervous habit that Sebastian’s picked up on the last few times they’d met. It smacks of reluctance and stems from the fear that once he starts talking he won’t be able to stop. The pause is starting to get uncomfortable. Sebastian cleans his throat. “I mean if you’d rather not-”

“I had a friend,” John says at the same time, and they both close their mouths. Sebastian huffs out a short laugh, and gestures for John to go on.

“I had a friend. He was...Well, I’m pretty sure he was insane, actually, but he was brilliant. And we did a lot of really stupid, daft stuff together. It was all his fault, of course. It was always his idea…” John trails off, and Sebastian watches the sad smile spread across his face, casting shadows.

“What happened?” he prompts after a few seconds of silence. He can practically follow the path John’s thoughts have taken, and it’s no wonder Sherlock Holmes never found him boring. John is an open book, but his thoughts are an engrossing read.

“He died,” John says simply, and Sebastian would believe his shrug of nonchalance if it isn’t for the way he drinks as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“Oh,” Sebastian can’t quite make the effort to put the surprised sympathy on his face. “Sorry.”

John waves his hand. “It’s…Well, it’s not fine. But it’s...you know. It happens. People die. God knows I’ve seen them do it enough.”

“I can drink to that,” Sebastian says, and grins over his glass when that manages to pull a short laugh out of John. The smile stops reaching his eyes after a moment though.

“Pretty sure you could drink to anything.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “I’m not actually an alcoholic, you know,” he says, and John pointedly looks at the more than half finished glass. “Yet.”

Sebastian looks at John. John meets his gaze.

The laughter comes out of nowhere. It bursts from both of them like water from pipes that have been pressurized too long. They laugh until their sides hurt, and when Sebastian finally feels himself calm down, wiping the hysteria from his eyes, all it takes is one look at John, doubled over and clutching his sides, to set him off again.

The bartender, closer than he’d been before, clears his throat near them and glances at the bouncer. Sebastian waves his hand, shushing John who’s still helplessly letting out small giggles.

“Sorry, sorry,” he manages to gasp out, and Sebastian smiles.

“It’s fine,” he says, watching John. His face is red and his hair is mussed a little in the front, but his eyes are brighter than Sebastian’s ever seen them, and the tear tracks on his cheeks are much more attractive than they should be.

Something hot curls in Sebastian’s stomach at the sight, and he tamps it down out of a mixture of instinct and guilt and habit. Jim had personally carved out any attraction Sebastian might feel for someone else with teeth and knives and scars. The wrong and don’t even think about it speeds through his mind

And then stops.

Jim isn’t here anymore. Jim isn’t even a ghost.

“-rry, it’s just been a long time since I’ve laughed like that,” John is saying, and Sebastian realizes that he’s zoned out to thoughts of Jim and the new rules of his universe. He shakes his head. When he smiles, it feels brittle.

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “It’s been a long time for me too. Things have been...off lately.”

“In what way?” John asks, taking a sip from his glass.

Sebastian opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. He hadn’t thought of anything to tell John yet. He’d just assumed that John would go on being polite and not ask.

Stupid, stupid.

There’s a piece of cashew nut on the bar, and Sebastian flicks it away, watching it land on the floor with a frown.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” John says, in what Sebastian thinks is probably the same voice he uses for reticent patients. “If it’s something bad, I mean.”

“It’s not that bad,” he says. “Just…” He trails off, the excuse gets caught on his tongue. He shrugs again, frustrated. Emotion wasn’t supposed to sneak up on him like this.

“My last relationship ended badly,” he manages finally, hating the words even as they come out of his mouth because calling what he had with Jim, the twisted and warped thing it was, a relationship, seems petty.

There’s a pause, and he can feel John’s eyes on him. “God,” he says eventually, and Sebastian glances up. His eyes are that shore rock color again, but there’s something on his face that makes Sebastian think he might not be entirely displeased. “Sorry, mate.”

But then there’s always something primally comforting about seeing your own struggle reflected in someone else.

Sebastian smiles and the expression feels like swallowing glass. “It’s fine. Things end. It just, er…”

“Ended badly?” John prompts. Sebastian nods, acknowleging his own words parroted back to him.

“You could say that,” he says.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks, and the concern is so clear in his voice that Sebastian doesn’t even have to look to see it in his expression, the furrowed brow, the kindness in the set of his mouth.

“Not really,” Sebastian says. And yet, “But have you ever thought you knew someone, or just...been with someone for so long, but then they do something you never thought they would, and you think...You wonder _why_? And there’s no answer because they’re gone, and you can’t stop fucking wishing that they hadn’t done what they’d done because…” He stops, swallowing heavily.

_Because why the fuck wasn’t I worth staying alive for?_

“Yes,” John says. Sebastian looks up, and sees that the line of John’s mouth isn’t kind, and his eyes are distant. He nods, meeting Sebastian’s eyes with an intensity Sebastian hadn’t thought him capable of. “Yes, I think I know exactly what you mean.”

The feeling in Sebastian’s stomach uncoils, unwraps itself from where it had clung to his lungs and ribs and heart and viscera for the past six months and rears its head, hissing and spitting with ugly fangs.

John licks his lips again, and Sebastian can’t help but glance down, watching the action.

“Looks like we’re both just two lonely old sods,” he says without humor, and Sebastian looks up. Caught.

The tension between them hums.

“We should go outside,” Sebastian offers.

“We _really_ should.”

The air is cold, heavy with the promise of snow, ready to blanket everything and cover up old sins.

Jim had _loved_ the snow.

Sebastian breathes it in, fingers twitching with the need for a cigarette he doesn’t have, and follows John wordlessly into the alleyway. The wind blows, and when he exhales, the breath visibly escapes from his nose. He’s thrumming with tension, and judging by the way John keeps clenching and unclenching his fist ahead of him, he’s not the only one.

John turns suddenly, and Sebastian is brought up short. They’re standing close, barely a foot of space between them, and when the wind blows a particularly cruel gust, beating against the exposed brick of the back of the bar, John clenches his jaw.

“It’s almost too cold for this sort of thing,” Sebastian drawls, letting Eton bite his consonants as he feels the remains of who he was six months ago break the ice and start to claw its way to the surface.

“Almost,” John agrees, a quick, fierce smile on his lips. “But not quite.”

John throws the first punch, and it lands like music. Sebastian laughs and takes his arm, dodging neatly, but he doesn’t account for how quickly the next one comes. It lands on his side, momentarily winding him. He can see John’s arm cock back in preparation for the next hit, but he catches his fist, grinning.

“Rookie mistake,” he growls, pushing John’s hand back towards him, intending to throw him off balance. But the color of John’s stone eyes must match whatever it is that’s sitting heavy inside of him, because John just steps back, before striding right back into Sebastian’s space.

Sebastian laughs, thrilled, and dodges the next few hits before landing a flurry of his own. He’s quicker than John, able to hit him faster and fight dirtier, but where Sebastian is a bullet, John is hewn from rock, unmoving, and taking the hits just as well as he returns them.

John’s fist connects with Sebastian’s mouth, whipping his face to the side, and Sebastian takes his wrist, twisting even as he’s momentarily stunned, before lashing out with his foot, planning on taking out John’s knee. John has other plans, though. He steps to the side, and Sebastian compensates for it, bringing his fist up in a quick uppercut. John’s head snaps back, and Sebastian takes advantage of the pause in action to wipe the blood off of his lip. His mouth twists into a smirk, and he revels in the way it pulls at the cut. But before he really knows what’s happening, John has him shoved up against the other side of the alleyway.

They’re both breathing hard, both bleeding. Sebastian knows that it’ll be worse in the morning, but he’s looking forward to waking up to something other than the dull ache in his chest, or the cramp in his legs from sleeping on the couch.

“That relationship of yours,” John says, still breathing hard through his nose, looking determined. “Man or woman?”

 _Neither_ , Sebastian wants to say, because putting Jim into any kind of category would mean admitting he was fully human, or at least fully real, and even though Sebastian has seen him at his most vulnerable, seen the blood on the roof, he still isn’t so sure.

“Does it matter?” he says instead.

John nods once, decisive, and then he’s crushing their lips together, kissing him in a way that feels like they’re still fighting.

Sebastian matches John’s intensity, and one of them, he’s not sure which, makes a sound like they’re dying. It’s good. It’s a hot point of warmth on an otherwise freezing night, and it’s all Sebastian wants right now, to feel needed and hurt again.

He can already feel the bulge in John’s trousers, can feel John’s desperation in the small sounds he’s making and the stilted movements of his hips. Sebastian presses his thigh between John’s legs, and grips his jacket, pulling him closer. The resulting moan is worth it, and when John pulls away, Sebastian realizes too late that it’s because he was laughing again. He stops, and takes John’s hand, attempting to pull him back.

“Sorry,” he gasps, fighting the manic grin on his face. “Sorry. You don’t have to go. It’s not you. It’s just-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John says, and shakes off Sebastian’s hand so he can take hold of his wrist. It’s subtle, but it’s a power play nonetheless, and Sebastian narrows his eyes in the face of it. John ignores him and pushes into him, kissing him again, quick and biting, before pulling away and tugging Sebastian along. “We’re getting a cab. My place.”

The disappointment that had started to sink in Sebastian’s chest dissipates, and he takes a deep breath, allowing himself to be led.

-

Sebastian can barely stop to get a good look at 221B when they step inside. John is already clinging to him like he’s the last steady handhold in the middle of an earthquake, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing the same thing. They’re both gripping each other with white knuckles, and Sebastian can almost hear the ghost of Jim’s laugh in his ear, soft and mocking.

It’s heady, feeling needed like this, and not a little disconcerting. Sex had always been a way to burn off extra steam, but when he’d started doing it with Jim, it had become something else entirely. Suddenly, needing someone, craving one person’s touch and the feeling of their skin against his own became paramount. In the five years they’d spent together, Sebastian hadn’t felt the need to be with anyone else. After having sex with Jim Moriarty, he figures doing it with anyone else is pointless. He still thinks so.

But John is sturdy and warm against him. And if there’s anyone he’ll let himself fall into, Sebastian knows that it’s him.

“Bedroom,” Sebastian manages to gasp out, his voice hitching when John finds a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. John pulls away reluctantly, and tugs at Sebastian’s wrist again.

“Upstairs,” he says. Sebastian blinks. He looks to the door he’d taken for John’s room when they’d first come in.

“I thought-”

“No,” John says, not even looking at the door, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Even with alcohol sloshing around inside of him, Sebastian can guess whose room that was and why John is so keen to ignore it. It’s the same reason he’s been ignoring his own bedroom.

“Right. Lead the way,” he says, and that calloused hand is on his wrist again, pulling him up the short staircase and through the open door that waits at the top.

John Watson’s bedroom isn’t something Sebastian thought he’d ever see, and it’s not out of the ordinary as far as bedrooms go. Everything in the room looks like it exists in the same way John does: squarely, and as if it never moves out of its own space unless forced. The bed is made in standard military style, sheets and blankets tight with clear lines standing out. Sebastian can see where it’s not perfect though, where John’s hands have tucked, faltered, and given up. He can’t tell if that’s a new habit, or just the waning of discipline over time.

Sebastian runs his hand over the duvet, threadbare and green, and looks up, smirking. “You’re slipping on your corners, captain,” he says, purposely working some of the old command into his voice. “This wouldn’t pass inspection if I you bribed me.”

John rolls his eyes. The desperation seems to have dissipated from him a bit, and in its wake, a slow tension starts moving through the room. He looks hungry instead, and hesitant now that they’ve moved away from each other.

“I suppose it depends on the bribe, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Money will only get you so far,” Sebastian says, leering openly. John swallows visibly and Sebastian strikes one point for himself.

“That’s fine. I don’t want to give you money anyway,” John says, smirking, and Sebastian takes it as an invitation to kneel on the bed, beckoning him closer.

“Then what do you want to give me?” he asks quietly, and this time he knows it’s not just a trick of the light when John’s eyes go darker, the hungry look eclipsing his usually placid features.

He really shouldn’t be surprised when John lunges, pinning him underneath him. Sebastian grunts at the pressure, bucking his hips up to try to break John’s hold. But John’s thighs only tighten around his hips. The grip on his wrists is strong.

It’s good. It’s unexpected. Jim was always easy to manhandle, though he could be difficult when he wanted to be, and Sebastian almost always went willingly with whatever plans he had in store. But it still feels unusual not being able to overpower someone in bed after years of being confident he could. The thought makes him shudder.  

John grins and Sebastian lets out a huff of annoyance.

“Don’t get so cocky,” Sebastian says, stopping the kiss that John was leaning in for. “That’s nothing to do with you.”

John blinks, and for a moment, looks so understanding that Sebastian has to fight the urge to hit him again. But then John frowns, swallows heavily. The look passes and the dregs of it leave him looking determined.

“What makes you think any of this has got to do with you?” he asks, gesturing between the two of them.

The spitting creature in Sebastian’s chest sings.

He sits up, grabs the back of John’s neck and pulls him down. The kiss is painful. John reopens the cut on his lip in his attempt to meet Sebastian’s force, and Sebastian tastes blood. He wishes he could drown John in it.

“God, yes,” John gasps. Sebastian smirks against the skin of John’s throat. He mouths along a vein in John’s neck and grazes his teeth over it.

John shudders and his hands move between the two of them and start to work on Sebastian’s belt.

“Clothes,” he rasps, pressing his hips up. “Bloody...clothes. Off.”

Sebastian laughs at the urgency in his voice, a short, free sound, and moves back enough to pull his shirt off. He tosses it to the floor, then reaches for John’s, hooking his fingers under the hem of his jumper. John doesn’t move, and Sebastian lets out a growl of frustration.

“You know you do have to cooperate if you-” He looks up, and the words die in his throat.

John is staring at his chest, staring straight at the initials carved on his right pectoral in impeccable, spiked handwriting: _J.M._

Sebastian leans back against the headboard, and stares at the spot of wall just by John’s ear.

“No.” A soft exhale, shaky with fear. That’s new, Sebastian thinks as he stares beyond John. In the short time he’s known him, he’s never heard John sound scared. A short thrill runs through him at the sound, and he closes his eyes in a slow blink. It’s good to know that the name still has the same effect after six months of disuse.

And it’s even better to let the shadow of disguise he’s been using, small though it is, slip off finally.

“No,” John says again. “No, you’re not- God, please tell me you’re not-”

“Tell you I’m not what?” Sebastian asks. His voice is clear, and instead of having the calming effect Sebastian hoped it might, it only seems to enrage John further. His lips go thin.

“With him,” John growls, enunciating each word. “With Moriarty.”

It takes more effort than it should to suppress a wince when he hears the name, but he manages. Though he thinks that something must flicker over his face, because John’s expression doesn’t soften, but very closely transforms into something akin to disgust.

“No one’s with him anymore,” Sebastian says before John can voice whatever scathing thing is on the tip of his tongue. “He’s dead.”

It’s easier to say it now for some reason, and the thought that their lovers killed each other and they’re the leftovers, the ones who have to sit/clean up/fuck in the aftermath, is so ridiculous and destructive that Sebastian has to fight back a laugh.

“And you’re...what?” John asks. “Spying on me for...for the rest of his network or something? Going to kill me and tie up loose ends?”

The thought alone is so tedious that Sebastian has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. But the idea does cross his mind: killing John Watson. It would be a neat little trick, and Jim would certainly find the symmetry in it endlessly satisfying, but it wouldn’t make sense now. He likes John Watson alone, likes knowing that he’s not the only one who’s been left. A living John Watson means that there was once a living Sherlock Holmes which means that there was a living Jim Moriarty at one point, and he can’t let go of that.

“If I planned to kill you, you never would have seen me in the first place,” Sebastian says. He gestures between them. “This wouldn't be happening.”

“Then what are you doing?” John asks. He shifts, and Sebastian can see the uncertainty in his eyes. If he moves then that means he won’t have him pinned anymore, but if he stays here, pressed tight against him and still (Sebastian subtly presses his hips up - yes) harder than any sane person would be, then that left room for more to happen between them, and that might mean they’re over their respective, very deceased, psychopaths.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and presses up again, throwing subtlety out the window. John lets out a gasp, and leans forward to grip Sebastian’s wrist.

“Don’t.” John’s eyes are steel, not watery rock, and Sebastian can feel the hard press of them against his skin. He can see the soldier in him now and it’s glorious.

“Don’t what?” Sebastian asks, pressing up again, smirking when he feels a traitorous twitch in response.

“Just...don’t,” John says. He catches Sebastian’s other hand as he’s about to move it to John’s hip.

“Why?” Sebastian asks with sudden ferocity. He tries to move his hand, but John’s grip is unyielding. “Scared?”

“Of you?” John asks, a mocking laugh that isn’t his own escaping him. “Please. That’s-”

“The only reason you took me home tonight is because you’re so bored out of your mind you can hardly stand yourself,” Sebastian snaps, cutting across whatever excuse John was about to make. “Come on, John,” he continues quietly when he’s sure he’s not going to be interrupted again. “Who picks fights in alleys with people they’ve already met? Who takes that same person home and practically mauls them once they’re inside the door? Normal people don’t fight in the same second they decide they want to fuck.”

“I’m not-”

“You are,” Sebastian says through a tense jaw. “And so am I.”

John is staring at him, eyes far away. Sebastian feels a pang of sadism, so he continues.

“We’re the leftovers,” he says, quieter. “They had their way with us, did what they wanted, and now that they’re gone, we’re the ones who have to deal with the messes. That’s all we are. That’s all we ever-”

The punch, when it comes, is not unexpected.

Sebastian feels the blood pour out of his nose, and he immediately twists, dodging the next hit. “Don’t you dare compare the two of us!” John snaps, and Sebastian catches his fist, twisting his wrist and turning them over. He gets John’s back on the bed, but isn’t prepared for them to keep rolling onto the floor. His head hits the hardwood with a thud and he turns just in time.

“John, listen-”

“I am _not_ like you,” John hisses like something inside of him has cracked, the steam pouring out bit by bit. “Sherlock was not like Jim. Sherlock was good, and-”

“Oh come off it,” Sebastian says, grabbing John’s wrists, restraining him. “Sherlock wasn’t any more of a good man than Jim. They were both geniuses, both looking for something to take away the boredom for a little while. The only thing that was different was how they did it. Even you can’t be stupid enough not to see that.”

John stays quiet, still breathing hard, but after a while Sebastian can see his point lodge itself into his mind, can see the doubt.

“That still doesn’t mean I’m anything like you,” he says finally, and Sebastian flashes a blood stained smile.

“Maybe,” he says. John releases him, and he stands up quickly, putting a hand to his nose to stem the blood flow. “I suppose we do have at least one difference.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”  
“You still haven’t lost faith.”

John stares for a moment and then suddenly huffs out an exhausted laugh. He runs a hand over his face. Sebastian notices his knuckles are split, and he almost gives in to the urge to reach over and lick them clean. He thinks there might be a kind of symbolism in the action, or at least a kind of symmetry, because if you fight like an animal, you might as well clean up like one and give yourself the full experience.

“And you have?” John asks. Sebastian doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Sebastian stares. In another life, under different circumstances, he thinks he could have loved John Watson.

Thankfully, John doesn’t push the matter. Sebastian changes the subject.

“So,” he says, inhaling sharply through his nose and ignoring the pain from his still throbbing nose. “Does this mean that we’re not shagging then?”

John looks at him, and for a moment Sebastian thinks he’s going to get punched again, but instead he seems to relax. He shrugs.

“I’m up for it if you are,” he says. Sebastian doesn’t bother hiding the surprise he knows is written on his face. He nods, starts to take a step toward John, but John holds a hand up, fixing him with a hard look. “But no disguises this time. I don’t have any interest in fucking whoever you were pretending to be before.”

Sebastian grins. He pulls John towards him by the nape of his neck, and is pleased when he doesn’t come too easily. “Who says I was pretending?”

-

Sex with John is not like sex with Jim. He knows it’s not fair to compare given that they operate on completely opposite sides of whatever fucked up spectrum they’re on, but he can’t help it. It’s a fact. Because even with Jim there had been times when Sebastian had to rein himself in to keep Jim’s mood in control. It was hard to just let himself go and fuck to forget for a little while.

But with John, he knows that’s exactly what they’re both doing. He knows that they’re both strong enough to take whatever the other dishes out. They’ve borne these bruises before, and no matter how reluctant they are to admit it, it feels good to be with someone who can take it.

Sebastian finds himself naked and flat on the bed almost too quickly, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull John on top of him, to align their hips and swallow John’s groan in his mouth when he rocks forward.

“Condom?” he breathes, squirms when John’s fingers dig into his arms. “Lube?”

“Already?” John asks, a note of amusement in his voice. He leans down and bites at Sebastian’s neck, leaving a mark that he knows is going to be visible above his shirt collars. Sebastian growls and reaches between them. He wraps his hand around John’s cock, hard and leaking, and strokes once, grinning smugly when John shudders.

“I think if we waste any more time this is going to be over before it even starts,” he says, leaning up to fist a hand in John’s hair. He tilts John’s neck back, and sinks his teeth into his shoulder, creating marks of his own in retaliation. He’s rewarded with a groan, and can’t help but smirk. Someone has a biting kink.

“Fine, fine. Just...give me a sec,” John gasps. His fingers clamp down on Sebastian’s wrist when he moves his hand again, and he leans over, rifling through the drawer in the bedside table.

Sebastian watches the muscles in John’s stomach tense as he works on keeping his balance. If it was anyone else he’d put a hand on their waist to steady them, but he likes the way John struggles too much to bother.

John leans back up, condom and bottle of lube in hand. He looks down at Sebastian, pausing for just a second. There’s a hint of uncertainty on his face, and Sebastian knows that look. He laughs.

John looks up from slicking his fingers. “What’s funny?”

“Oh please don’t tell me-”

“What?” The word is snapped, frustrated.

Sebastian gestures between the two of them. “You’ve never done this before? With a man, I mean?”

John’s eyes slide to the side, and he shakes his head. “We -” He stops, staring at the wall. “I just never got around to it.”

 _We_ , Sebastian thinks. _Hello._

“Can I assume you don’t need a lecture on the basic mechanics, at least?” he asks, even as John’s fingers move below his balls, hissing at the first touch of cold lube on his skin.

John drags his gaze up Sebastian’s body just to roll his eyes. “Please,” he scoffs, working a finger inside of Sebastian. “I’m a doctor. Having my fingers in a stranger’s arse isn’t exactly new.”

Sebastian bites his cheek to stifle a groan, because yes it’s been a while, but getting fingered doesn’t just stop feeling good. “Don’t think you could make this sound less sexy if you tried.”

“Really?” John asks. He shifts his wrist slightly, pressing up, and Sebastian sees stars. “How about now?”

“Okay, yes. Fine. _Fuck yes._ ”

“That’s what I thought.” John smacks Sebastian’s thigh and slides another finger into him, scissoring them gently. It’s a good, familiar stretch, and Sebastian can’t help but relax into it. He tries not to remember the last time he’d done this with someone, tries even harder not to remember who that someone was, or the way sex had devolved into quick and heated bursts of pleasure between fights and uneasiness in the last few weeks before it all just stopped.

There’s a hand squeezing the base of his cock suddenly and he opens his eyes, surprised to see John so close to his face. The lines in his forehead are creased with worry.

“What?”

“You looked like you were spacing out.”

“Did I?” he asks, distracted, trying to shake off the memories that won’t stop coming. It happened when he’d talked to Sophie, numerous times when he was alone, and it had just happened now. Even dead, Jim controlled every part of his life.

Sebastian sighs, shifting. Right. Fingers in his arse. John. Nudity. Right. “Sorry. Keep going.”

“Are you sure?” Sebastian can see the doctor in John now, all clinical concern. The complete opposite of Jim.

Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. He rocks down against John’s fingers, letting the pleasure ground him again. “Yes. Come on, that’s enough.”

John takes his fingers away, too fast, and Sebastian hisses at the sudden empty feeling, his muscles clenching down on nothing but air.

“Sorry,” John says, glancing up as he rolls on the condom. He slicks himself a few times, and Sebastian closes his eyes when he hears his quiet groan.

“Don’t get carried away there,” he says, but his smirk falls flat on his face when he sees John.

John who’s slowly stroking his cock and looking at him with the kind of hunger Sebastian’s only seen in jungle cats the second before he puts his bullet inside of them.

He exhales slowly.

“I won’t,” John says, and pushes Sebastian’s thighs apart before sliding inside of him in one smooth motion.

Sebastian closes his eyes, and immediately reaches for his cock, grimacing as he gets used to the full feeling of John inside of him.

He feels John pause, and he opens his eyes, surprised that he’s not immediately fucking him into the mattress.

“Something wrong?” he asks, shifting a bit in an attempt to make John move. He doesn’t. He stays exactly where he is. Sebastian frowns and nudges him in the side with his knee. “Finally having your sexuality crisis?”

John squeezes Sebastian’s thigh, but still seems lost in whatever trance or memory he’s living in. “Bit late for that.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian says, narrowing his eyes. He wonders if he looks that way when he remembers Jim; like he’s been untethered and can’t find anything else to hold him.

He shudders a little at the thought, and blindly takes action. Now is not the time for simpering analogies.

He wraps his legs around John’s waist and pushes up, using the leverage to take John in until John’s hips are pressed flush against his arse. He purposely contracts his muscles around John’s cock, and that finally seems to get a result. John’s hips twitch against him, and he blinks, the last of the haziness finally leaving his eyes.

Sebastian smirks. “Back with the living?”

“Yeah.” John nods. He pulls out of Sebastian slightly, and then pushes back in, his breath catching. “ _Yeah_ , I am.”

“Good,” Sebastian says, already tired of the emotion they can’t seem to get away from. He reaches up and twists a hand into John’s hair, pulling him down and landing a harsh bite to his bottom lip. John tries to pull away, but Sebastian only tightens his grip. “Because I am _not_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I’m not Jim Moriarty,” John hisses, grinding against Sebastian.

“Decidedly not,” Sebastian says, glad that his voice doesn’t falter when John grips his hips and slams into him again, harder than before. His grip on John’s hair loosens, but John doesn’t pull away this time. He touches his forehead against Sebastian’s, and they breathe against each other as John slowly pulls almost all the way out before pushing back into him, repeating the action when it manages to wrench a low moan out of Sebastian.

Sebastian has to admit that John knows what he’s doing. Even if he really hasn’t ever fucked a man before, at this point there’s really not much of a difference. He’s attentive, and when Sebastian’s breath starts to come a little quicker, feeling like he’ll be driven to insanity if John doesn’t pick up his pace a little, he speeds up his movements, driving into him harshly.

Sebastian gasps, and can’t help the way he arches against John, leaning up to kiss him. Like this, he can feel the heat coming off of him, can almost feel John’s heart pounding in his chest as he pushes his cock into him over and over.

The air smells of sex and sweat and Sebastian swears that if he inhales deeply enough he can smell desperation too. He turns his head to John’s shoulder and kisses a trail along his neck, biting and sucking marks that he knows are going to be visible above his clothes. John growls, and reaches his hand down. He knocks Sebastian’s hand out of the way, and wraps his hand around Sebastian’s cock, stroking him in time with the movements of his hips.

Sebastian twitches, and revels in John’s resulting moan. He shifts slightly, trying to find a better angle, because while this is working for him so far, he knows it can be better. He tilts his hips up a bit, putting a foot on the bed for leverage, and moans when John’s cock brushes against his prostate.

John notices the slight change in Sebastian’s breathing and makes sure to keep the same angle, pushing into him with even more force than before. _Very_ attentive, Sebastian thinks as his breath hitches and he rocks back against John, knowing that he won’t be able to last much longer; at least not with John’s hand on him and John’s cock is sliding in and out of Sebastian’s body just the way he likes it.

But to be fair, John doesn’t look very composed either. His breaths are coming in short little pants that Sebastian can’t help but find endearing, and his rhythm has started to become a little more erratic than it was before.

He digs his nails into the back of John’s neck and bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, shivering when John only groans and speeds up.

“Close,” he gasps, burying his face in Sebastian’s shoulder, his hand stilling. “Fuck...Sebastian-”

Sebastian snarls and pushes John’s hand away. He closes his eyes and strokes himself quickly as John tenses and then goes still above him, moaning as he comes.

Sebastian watches him, watches as John leans in and kisses him. He feels John pull out of him and he bites his lip to stifle a groan at the sudden empty feeling.

But then John’s fingers are inside of him, searching for a moment before pressing up and Sebastian comes with his nails digging into John’s scalp and his mouth against his jaw, gasping.

Then it’s over.

They breathe against each other for a few moments, coming down from their respective highs before John moves away and lays down next to Sebastian.

“I’m going to hazard a guess and assume you don’t cuddle,” John says, sounding a lot like the man he met in the pub, and less like the one who hates him. He’s more relaxed. But then, orgasms usually have that effect.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow and glances at him. “Not with you, anyway.”

John is quiet for a moment. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged Moriarty for a cuddler,” John says. There’s something vicious in his voice, like he knows he’s deliberately bringing up something painful, and Sebastian can’t help but admire him for it. He hadn’t thought John capable of lashing out in such an insidious way. It’s almost comforting to find out he’s wrong.

“He wasn’t.” It’s not a lie. Not really, anyway. Jim never did it intentionally, but he always managed to curl up against Sebastian while he slept. They never acknowledged it. “Though I doubt Sherlock was either.”

He turns his head to find John looking at him, and his expression so closely resembles the one Sebastian sees in the mirror each morning before he slips on his mask of normalcy, that it startles him.

“No,” John says.

For a moment, Sebastian feels something like pity for John Watson. Because even though Jim was gone, at least he’d gotten to be with him for a little while before everything went to shit. John hadn’t even had that.

“I suppose I should be going then,” Sebastian says, sitting up and stretching. He already feels sore, and he knows that tomorrow won’t be an easy day to endure if he can barely sit.

Pain is a distraction, though. And he’s never minded it much.

“Probably,” John says, his expression carefully blank. “I don’t think this should happen again.”

“Neither do I.” Sebastian gets up and finds his clothes, scattered around the floor but only slightly wrinkled, and puts them on. All he can think about right now is the shower at his flat, still containing Jim’s poncy shampoo, and the fact that sleeping on the couch isn’t going to do anything to help the soreness.

He smells like John Watson, and hates it.

“Do you think they thought about us?” John asks suddenly, and Sebastian barely curbs the urge to drive his fist into the wall. They’re done here. They should stop talking about it. “Do you think they cared at all?”

This time the memories come, and Sebastian can’t control them.

_Jim climbing into his lap after a hard day. Jim smiling when he handed him his tea in the morning. Jim’s hand in his hair when he’s about to pull the trigger. Jim mumbling his name in his sleep, looking peaceful..._

Sebastian closes his eyes. His throat is suddenly very tight, and all he wants is to go home. “No.”

“Yeah, me neither,” John says. He’s sitting up in bed and Sebastian is very aware of how small he looks, sitting naked with his hands folded in his lap amongst rumpled sheets. He doesn’t have anything anymore.

Sebastian nods, and shrugs his jacket on, checks that his phone is in his pocket, and goes to the door.

“I’ll be seeing you then,” Sebastian says, checking his phone. There’s a text from Sophie, marked as important. He pauses before opening it. The last thing he wants right now is to hear her telling him to take control of something that’s meaningless now.

But it’s unlike her to use words like important, or urgent, let alone to take the time to physically mark them as such. The little red exclamation mark blinks at him as he considers until finally he sighs, clicks open the message-

and stops breathing.

“No, you won’t,” John says, huffing out a quiet laugh. He looks awkward, almost ashamed that he’s still sitting unclothed, vulnerable.

Sebastian barely hears him. He goes so still he swears he can feel the Earth revolving on its axis beneath his feet. The text message…

Several things make themselves very clear to Sebastian at once, and it’s like the last few pieces of a puzzle finally click together in his head.

He looks at John, and feels the burn start to chill, turn ice cold in his veins. He feels tethered again.

“Yes,” he says quietly, giving John one last look before going out the door. “You will.”

He walks out of the bedroom, and takes the stairs out of the flat slowly, one at a time, until he’s back on the street. He doesn’t even consider hailing a cab, but instead walks, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he resists the urge to glance behind him.

Sophie had sent a picture message. At first Sebastian had thought it was just a picture of trees, but the closer he’d looked, the more he’d seen the figure hiding out the in the distance; the dark, curly hair, the pale eyes, the calculating expression.

He dials her number, suddenly feeling more relaxed than he has in a long time.

She picks up. “You got the message?”

“Yes.” He hears her slow exhale, can see in his mind’s eye the way her fingers would slowly start to drum on her thigh as she waits for him to respond. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“I heard him speak. I’ve heard him speak before. It’s definitely him.”

Sebastian nods, and takes his key out of his pocket to open the door of the flat. His heart is pounding hard in his chest, and he knows it’s a long shot, but hope is the only thing he can hang on to at the moment.

Because if Sherlock Holmes can survive falling off a building, then Jim Moriarty can most definitely survive a bullet to the head. And if there’s one place he’d come first, it would be here.

He opens the door and looks in.

“Sebastian?” Sophie is saying on the other end of the line, sounding more frantic than he can ever remember. “Sebastian? Are you still there? Holmes is alive. Do you understand? You have to do something. He’s taking everything down - has been for the last six months.”

The flat is empty.

Sebastian lets his knees give out, not minding the dull pain when he lands hard on the floor. Disappointment blooms in his chest, and he closes his eyes, barely listening to Sophie’s words, even as they become increasingly more frustrated. She doesn’t hang up, though, and he’s grateful for that.

He should have known. Sherlock Holmes would come back from the dead and finish what he started. He’d been sane when he’d met Jim on the roof - not the suicidal fake that Jim had made him out to be. Of course he’d have known what was being planned. The man was brilliant.

But Jim had been a mess in the weeks leading up to it. It made sense that he’d put a gun in his mouth just to make sure that everything went according to plan. He wasn’t going to come back now.

Sebastian thinks about John Watson, thinks about the mix of anger and happiness and disbelief that will go through his mind when he finds out, if he ever finds out, and he’s so hateful and jealous for a moment that he thinks he might blackout.

But John Watson is on the side of the heroes. And Sebastian’s known for a very long time which side he’s on, and that his side usually doesn’t win.

But when they lose, they seek revenge.

Sebastian brings the phone back to his ear, and opens his eyes. “Sophie?”

“What?” She’s angry. Sebastian can picture the look on her face, can see the impatient flash of her green eyes. “I’m here. What?”

**“I need your help.”**


End file.
